Sympathy for the Devil
by Tez
Summary: The whole world mourns a fallen hero. Who mourns a fallen assassin? Eliot/OC (Tessa Quinn), sequel to Midnight at the Lost and Found.


Continuity Note: This story comes between 'Midnight at the Lost and Found' and 'Objects in the Rearview Mirror,' directly following the Strasbourg explosion. It involves original characters pretty heavily, so if you haven't read those stories, this one isn't going to make a whole lot of sense.

* * *

_So this is what it feels like_

_To be the one left behind_

* * *

For the first few weeks, he feels like he's swimming through molasses, struggling just to get out of bed. He reaches for her every morning, and the sharp stab of pain when he realizes she isn't there never gets any easier to handle. Eventually Vance calls him, looking to put together a team to do - something. He doesn't really care about the mission, he just has to find something to do before he explodes, so he says yes without asking for details. He ends up in Guatemala, fighting alongside Vance and a couple of CIA guys in the jungle.

They're camped out in the middle of the Amazon, wet and miserable in their hammocks as the weather reminds them why it's called a rainforest, when Vance nudges him with one foot.

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?" Eliot asks, unable to muster the energy to be interested in whatever conversation Vance is trying to start.

"Quinn. Is she...I heard a rumor. And you haven't said anything about her since you got here."

Eliot stares up at the leafy canopy, wondering what Tessa would have thought of this place. She'd never been a big fan of the outdoors, but there's a serene beauty to it that he thinks she might have appreciated, the sky above them obscured by a thousand different shades of green.

"She's dead."

"Hell." Vance pulls his foot back, using it to push against the trunk of a nearby tree and making his own hammock rock a little on its ropes. "I'm sorry, Spencer."

"Thanks." He says it because it's the polite thing to say, not because Vance's words change anything. Vance being sorry won't bring her back.

"She saved my life once. You remember that time in Malaysia?"

"I remember." His voice is rusty, a lump rising in his throat. He hopes Vance is planning to change the subject soon.

"I'll tell you what, though, Spencer. I know how much it sucks to lose somebody that you - you know. That you care about. But from what I heard, she was starting to go off the rails. Maybe you're better off without her. At least this way she couldn't take you down with her when she crashed and burned."

Eliot spends the rest of the mission in silence. When he gets back to Europe, he stops returning Vance's calls.

* * *

_And you know I'd drag myself through fire at your side_

_And you know the gates of Heaven are surely open wide_

* * *

Jinx cries every time he calls.

He knows how much she idolized Tessa, knows she still feels like she owes Tessa her life. He remembers the day they met Jinx, the day Tessa rescued her from a Cuban drug cartel, and reflects on how much the hacker has blossomed since then. He thinks back on all the ways Jinx has changed in the past three years, all the things he and Tessa did to help that smart-mouthed little girl turn into an impressively shrewd businesswoman at the tender age of fifteen. He'd like to be there for her, to give her the support Tessa isn't here to provide, but he isn't what she needs. She needs Tessa, and that's the one thing he can't give her.

He doesn't want to ruin the progress she's made, doesn't want to add to the kid's grief. She's got enough to worry about without having to deal with the constant reminder of his presence.

She cries every time he calls, so he stops calling.

* * *

_Sometimes you know I overreact_

_I wish I could take it all back_

* * *

The next time he sees Sarah Sullivan, she slaps him.

He isn't expecting it, and his immediate reflex is to grab her wrist and snap her forearm in half, but he stops himself. He doesn't like her - he's never liked her - but she and Tessa had been friends. Tessa wouldn't have appreciated him destroying the thief's livelihood by breaking her arm.

"Are you happy now?" she demands, either not realizing or not caring that she's making a scene. They're in a museum, at the gala opening of a traveling Renoir exhibit. She's probably there to case the joint, planning to steal a painting. He's there because he doesn't have anywhere better to be, even though he's not really a fan of Renoir. Tessa was the one who'd liked the Impressionists.

"What's the matter with you?" he fires back, irritation flaring.

"You _told _her, you stupid son of a bitch."

"Wait, are you- " He grabs her arm, not caring what it might look like to the bystanders, not caring if there are bystanders at all anymore. "Are you saying that you knew about the brothels? The kids? You knew and you didn't tell her?"

"Of course I knew. Everyone knew, Spencer. And everyone knew that if she found out, one of them would end up dead. I didn't tell her because I didn't want to take the chance that it would be her." She yanks her arm out of his grasp and shoves him, hard. "It's your fault. You might as well have killed her yourself."

She storms off, but he barely notices. Her words echo in his head. _It's your fault_, they whisper, and there's a part of him that agrees.

* * *

_I don't want to be here wide awake_

_Clinging to a love that can't be saved_

* * *

The only people he can talk about it with are strangers. More specifically, women. Apparently, telling a beautiful woman the love of his life was killed in a tragic accident and he doesn't know how he's going to survive without her is a magic formula for getting laid. It doesn't matter who they are; the story of Tessa's death is like a siren song that draws them to him. He dates a flight attendant, a doctor, a cop, a handful of models, and an embarrassingly large number of strippers. He likes them because they're so different from Tessa, because none of them remind him of her.

Until he sleeps with them, anyway. He can listen to them talk for hours, learning about their lives and their jobs and their hopes and dreams, and all he sees are the differences. When he tries to make love to them, all he can see are the similarities. Suddenly it's Tessa's lips on his neck, Tessa's fingers tangled in his hair, Tessa's body arching beneath his. He starts to get a reputation for being an old-fashioned gentleman, the kind of guy who wants to get to know a woman instead of taking her straight to bed. The truth is that he's procrastinating, putting off the inevitable moment after he's slept with them that he'll have to leave because he can't stand the way they remind him of her.

In all fairness, about half of them leave him first. They don't take kindly to being called by another woman's name in bed. Eliot doesn't blame them.

* * *

_And I need some sympathy here_

_Standing in the light of my mistakes_

* * *

If he'd been willing to stop and think about this ahead of time, he would have realized it was a bad idea. There's no way it can possibly be a good idea. And yet, here he is, answering a summons from a man even Tessa would have considered amoral. He'll be lucky if he gets out of this alive.

_Lucky_, he thinks to himself, and wonders whether he's hoping for luck. He's only alive because no one's managed to kill him yet, only working because he's got nothing better to do. If being lucky means he has to keep living like this, maybe luck isn't what he wants.

He enters the room and finds his host standing by the fireplace, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Eliot's entire wardrobe.

"Ah, Mr. Spencer." Damien Moreau gives him a smile that drips with conceit. "I'm so glad you could join me."

"Moreau," Eliot grunts, not interested in pleasantries. "What do you want?"

"What I want is to offer you a job. Before we get started, though, I'd like to offer you my condolences."

"For what?"

Moreau shrugs. "I heard you and Tessa Quinn were lovers. She did a job for me once, years ago. I liked her very much, you know. I'm sorry she's gone. It must be difficult for you."

Eliot meets Moreau's gaze, startled, and for one incredible moment the crushing weight of his grief is lifted off of his shoulders. Finally, _finally_, someone understands.

"It's been…tough."

"I'm sorry," Moreau says again, and it isn't the awkward platitude Vance offered him in Guatemala. This is a real apology, not just for what Eliot is suffering but for Tessa's death itself. Moreau knew her, liked her, feels sorry that she's gone. Moreau doesn't think Eliot is better off without her.

"Thanks."

Moreau nods, gesturing for Eliot to join him at the table.

"Would you like a drink? I have an excellent scotch collection."

Tessa would have jumped at that offer. Her love of expensive wine had only been matched by her love of expensive scotch.

"In fact, I believe the one I'm drinking now is the one she favored. The Macallan 1965 Speymalt?"

It's a two thousand dollar bottle of scotch, which Eliot knows because Moreau is right. It was one of Tessa's favorites.

"It was," he agrees, feeling that familiar lump in his throat again and willing it away. He can't afford to get sentimental in the middle of a business meeting with one of the most powerful money men on this side of the Atlantic. "I'd prefer beer, though. If that's all right."

* * *

_Waiting for a sign you just can't give me_

_Any kind of sign_

* * *

Moreau keeps up a steady stream of commiseration for the first six months Eliot works for him. He gives Eliot far more latitude than any of the other hired help gets. When Eliot explains that he doesn't like guns, that he'd rather do his work with his hands, Moreau smiles and nods and tells him that any man who was able to earn Tessa Quinn's trust must know what he's doing, so he isn't going to tell Eliot how to do his job. When Eliot refuses to work with a partner, explaining that he always works alone, Moreau smiles and nods and says that after working closely with Tessa for so long, Eliot must be used to the highest standards of professionalism, and if he would prefer to work alone then Moreau won't stand in his way.

After the first six months, working for Moreau becomes second nature to him. He takes on jobs for Moreau that he wouldn't have taken for anyone else, in part because they were the kinds of jobs that Tessa would have taken without argument and in part because, in some twisted way, he feels like he owes Moreau something for his sympathy. Eventually he becomes Moreau's right hand man, the chief enforcer for a criminal enterprise that dwarfs anything Europe has seen in half a century.

He's the one who warned Tessa about the trap she fell into with Leontinev when she became his right hand woman, the warning that led to her death. When he thinks about it, he realizes he's fallen into exactly the same trap with Damien Moreau. The irony of the situation doesn't escape his notice, and he hopes that if Moreau decides to kill him, the way Leontinev killed Tessa, he doesn't telegraph his intentions beforehand. Eliot's survival instinct is a pesky thing, kicking in when he least wants it to and keeping him alive when all he wants is to finally be finished with all of this.

Coming home from carrying out a hit in Uzbekistan – one of Moreau's lieutenants thought he could get away with skimming profits, and Eliot was sent to show him just how wrong he was - he nearly misses the tripwire attached to his apartment door, but that pesky survival instinct kicks in again. Before he realizes what he's doing, he's jumping from the second floor balcony, landing with a jolt that fractures at least one bone in his right foot and pressing himself flat against the ground as shrapnel from the explosion rains down into the courtyard. The explosion isn't Moreau's style. It's too brute, too graceless. Moreau likes quiet assassinations, not bombs that take out entire buildings. He's considering whether he's going to bother trying to figure out who's targeting him or simply wait for them to be successful, and then his phone rings.

"Yeah?"

"Next time you won't get out alive."

It takes a long moment for him to place the voice. "Vance?" he says finally, puzzled. He hasn't spoken to Vance in nearly two years.

"I don't know what happened to you, Spencer, or how the hell a guy like you ended up working for scum like Moreau, but your grace period is over. The Department of Defense isn't going to sit around on our asses indefinitely, watching you use the training we gave you to slaughter civilians for that slimy bastard. If you don't quit working for Moreau, the next bomb is going to kill you."

"You promise?" Eliot replies, but there's no challenge in his tone. If anything, he's hopeful. Maybe Vance will finally succeed where everyone else has failed. Maybe Vance will put him out of his misery.

There's silence on the line, long enough that Eliot wonders if the call has been disconnected, and then Vance sighs.

"If you want to die, Spencer, the DOD's gonna grant your wish. Make sure you get your affairs in order." He's silent for another moment. "This isn't how it should be. If I – if you – " Vance pauses, then huffs, sounding impatient. With himself or with Eliot, it isn't clear. "To hell with it. Spencer, get out. Get out of town, get out of the country; hell, get out of Europe altogether. If Quinn weren't already dead, this would kill her, watching you self destruct like this."

He doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't have to. Vance hangs up, leaving Eliot alone in a courtyard filled with ashes and debris.

* * *

_I ask myself if I love you so much_

_That I'm willing to let you go_

* * *

Six weeks later, he's in Los Angeles, for no better reason than that it isn't in Europe. As far as he knows, Moreau thinks he was killed in the explosion that destroyed his apartment, and he isn't in a hurry to correct him. He's still not sure whether he wants to be alive, but what Vance said about getting his affairs in order struck a chord with him. He has a responsibility to Jinx, to make sure the kid stays safe after he's gone. He figures he'll work enough jobs and earn enough money to buy her a permanent bodyguard, someone he can trust to look after her. Maybe someone from one of Vance's teams, a female agent who'd be willing to trade in a lifetime of being shot at for a comparatively cushy job babysitting the hacker.

The call from Dubenich, offering him three hundred grand for one night's work, doesn't surprise him. If even one person recognized him in the airport, every major player in North America will know he's here by the end of the day. His reputation precedes him. He agrees to take the job for the insanely high payout, uninterested in the details.

The next night, he meets Nate Ford.

* * *

_But the truth is hard to swallow_

_When you're choking on your pride_

* * *

The first inkling of trouble comes as he watches the thief hook up her rigging on the roof. He pokes a little fun at the hacker, who's clearly head over heels for her, but it doesn't distract him from his inner sense of _wrong_. He's not sure what's setting off his internal alarm. He's almost convinced himself that it's just the strange situation, the awkwardness and uncertainty of working with a team after years of insisting on working alone, and then Parker flings herself off the roof and he realizes what the problem is. Parker reminds him of her.

_Tessa_, the traitorous part of his mind whispers, the part that refuses to let her go even though she's been dead for two years. It's wrong, though. Parker is too tall, too skinny, too blonde, too _crazy_. Tessa was a little bit crazy, in a way that made him shake his head and roll his eyes and love her even more. Parker is a lot crazy, in a way that makes him want to keep a weapon trained on her at all times because that much crazy means total unpredictability and a whole lot of danger.

"That's twenty pounds of crazy in a five pound bag," he tells Hardison, and means it.

* * *

The next sign of trouble blindsides him, coming out of nowhere while he argues with the others about their plan for revenge.

"He tried to kill us," Eliot points out, trying to make Nate see why they need to leave, now, before Dubenich tries again and succeeds. He still has no idea why he's fighting so hard, but he attributes it to that pesky survival instinct.

"And more importantly, he didn't pay us," the thief adds, and Eliot glowers at her.

"How is that more important?" he demands.

"I take that personally," says Parker, with a superior sniff that says she doesn't realize the words reveal how damaged she is, that she isn't even _surprised _by the attempt to kill her. That she expects people to treat her as though her life is worth less than a payout.

He feels like he's been kicked in the chest. _Tessa_, the traitorous part of his mind whispers again. It's wrong, though. Tessa was a little bit broken, in a way that made his heart ache for what she'd suffered and made him want to protect her by any means necessary. Parker is a lot broken, in a way that…well, in a way that makes him want to protect her by any means necessary. _Damn it_.

"There's something wrong with you," he tells Parker, and means it.

* * *

The final nail in his coffin comes after the job is finished, after Hardison pulls a rabbit out of his hacker's hat and presents them all with multimillion dollar payouts, and they decide it's time to part ways.

"I already forgot your names," Parker says, haughty to cover up her disappointment, and suddenly he understands.

Parker isn't Tessa. He knows that. Tessa is dead. Parker is too crazy, too damaged.

Parker is what Tessa might have become without him. Without him to rein in her insanity, without him to keep her safe.

Once he realizes that, he knows he's finished, knows he's never going to be able to walk away. It's not about replacing Tessa. Tessa is gone and no one can replace her. He isn't even attracted to Parker, not like that. But he can protect her. He can do for her what he failed to do for Tessa. He can keep her alive.

"One show only. No encores," he says, but he knows it's a lie even as the words leave his lips.

* * *

_I stumbled on 'I love you'_

_But it sounded like goodbye_


End file.
